


Severance

by EvelynsGrave



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Withdrawal, Angst with a Happy Ending, Breaking Up & Making Up, Comfort/Angst, F/M, Headcanon, Healing, Post-Resident Evil: Vendetta, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Love, Self-Worth, Sobriety, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, non-BETA’d
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-07-08 03:38:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19862884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvelynsGrave/pseuds/EvelynsGrave
Summary: Broken and jaded, Leon thinks of a way out— and gets it.A story about self-worth and recovery.





	Severance

**Author's Note:**

> As someone who wrote a multi-chapter fic about our boi suffering from a bunch of PTSD-induced nightmares, I feel inclined to balance it out by giving him a break and just making him HAPPY. He deserves it.
> 
> *TW: Suicidal thoughts ahead on the first part of the fic.

In the solace of the dark linen room of the Raccoon Police Department, with his eyes tightly shut and breaths heavy from almost failing to escape the creatures that stalk his presence, he had once aimed the Matilda under his chin. It was the quickest way to escape the nightmare and perhaps the least painful one. 

For some reason he didn’t pull the trigger, and once the loud, rhythmic footsteps and hissing disappeared, he calmly walked out of the room and carried on. 

Next thing he knew, he was walking out into the daylight with a gorgeous stranger as a child swung their hands that she held in hers back and forth.

He’s gotten good at not having the same thought in the middle of missions. It’s the last thing on his mind, even. Chalk it up to adrenaline and bearing the weight of saving millions on his shoulders. The job needs to be finished, and everyone hailed Leon S. Kennedy as the ever-benevolent and strong-willed hero that the world needs more of. 

Nobody knows what it’s like in between the action, when he’s alone in his home with no one to cry to. 

The creatures waiting to tear him to shreds are gone during the day time, but they come back along with the people that they have killed to pay him a visit at night.

His bedroom is dark and lonely, very much like the linen room of the RPD. Many times, he found himself clutching the weapon in his hand, aimed not at the shadows lurking in the dark, but under his chin like he had done before. After all, it’s still the quickest and least painful way to end the nightmare. 

And when the sun had risen, he’ll be by himself sitting by the window with the loaded gun and a glass of booze on the table in front of him. It was his default past-time after the outbreak in New York City. He’d spend the entire morning with a thousand yard stare, pouring one shot after another in an almost mechanical fashion with his right hand. He was gathering the courage to pick up the weapon with the other. Every day ended with his face buried in the sink or in the toilet, whichever he reaches first. The weapon remained untouched. 

One morning he decided to try something different: sobriety. 

He’d hoped that it would grant him the energy and decisiveness that the alcohol clearly failed to provide. Instead it only gave him a shaky grip and a nagging headache that fogged his senses even more. But he didn’t go to his usual spot by the window. He ran to his computer, and the gun remained untouched yet again.

The days that followed were equally taxing. Just like he had found out in his research, going cold turkey isn’t the way to go. Playing his own therapist is also the stupidest idea. Especially when he has one. 

He used to laugh at the said therapist’s take on his case. He’s been told that he was damaged goods even before 1998, thanks to less-than-stellar parenting— and Raccoon City was the trigger that opened old wounds and unleashed a plethora of unhealthy coping methods— like chasing emotionally unavailable partners and excessive drinking. _Bullfuckingshit,_ he would always scoff. Someone who hadn’t gone through what he had has no business telling him how to cope correctly. So he stopped coming to the sessions, save for when he needs prescriptions. 

Now he can congratulate his pride and denial for turning himself into a bigger mess.

It took one phone call to set up an appointment— then came the referrals— then came help. 

There was help. 

Why did he think there was none? 

It’s been close to two weeks. He still feels like shit. But it’s a different kind. It was the good kind. It was the kind he had no choice but to go through so he could stop feeling like shit altogether. 

And that gun on the table? Still there, untouched. 

He scratched his head at the irony of the situation. He sought help to gain clarity so he could get it over with. Now that he has a semblance of it, his mind gives him a different option. One that doesn’t involve death. 

He grabs the gun from the table, unloads it and locks it away. He looks at the near-empty bottle sitting close to where the weapon had been. 

He can’t quit it all the way— not just yet. But now he can resist being under its control. 

It felt just like calmly stepping out of the linen room those many years ago.

_I am not your rolling wheels_  


_I am the highway_

**~**

So what was he trying to do in his computer in that moment? 

Option number two. He remembers now, courtesy of his sober mindset. 

He hates typing formal shit like this. It’s like making reports after a mission, the next worst thing about his job after the prospect of dying or turning into a hideous monster. He hated having to use professional statements and formal vocabulary. This one’s going directly to the President. It has to be impeccable. 

He has spent a good hour staring at the screen, not knowing how to begin. His mind started to wander on thoughts of the outrage that will unfold when all is said and done. They couldn’t say that he did it out of drunkenness. It’s no secret that he had sought intervention. That might even help his case, now that he thinks about it. 

He was in the middle of imagining how much phone calls he would get from every higher-up he could think of when Noel the Nebelung quietly climbed onto the table and proceeded to walk on the keyboard. 

“Hey,” he yelps softly, broken from his trance. The grey cat gives him a seemingly judgmental stare with its piercing green eyes before it continues its graceful walk across the keyboard. 

“Ok, ok, I’m on it,” he says in a defeated tone as he set him down back to the floor.

He keeps it short and simple. They’d demand his explanation in person anyway. He understands how bold and downright ridiculous this is— and that’s alright. He’s valuable, but not irreplaceable. And he’s going to remind them that fact. 

Noel the Nebelung demands his attention by rubbing himself all over his left leg. He finishes up, saves the file and prints his no-nonsense resignation letter that will either be taken as a dumb joke or completely disregarded by the powers that be. 

They won’t let him go for sure. And he knows that he’d still find it in himself to help make the world a safer place. 

Just not in the way they wanted him to. No more. 

He’d already given up his sanity and then some to be coerced into giving up more. That only works for doe-eyed rookies. 

And just like back then, they’re going to find a way to bargain— but this time, he might just have the upper hand.

_I am not your carpet ride  
_

_I am the sky_

**~**

It didn’t take too long for her to reach out once she heard the news. 

So said a message from an unknown number: _Congratulations on getting out, but you’re not getting rid of me that easy._

He knows that.

And so he responds: _Got something of yours that I have to return. My place. Tomorrow morning._

She had a knack of catching him off guard, so she comes a little too early. But the tables have turned. She walks into him calmly waiting for her arrival. He watches the minute changes on her facial expression as she looks around. She tries to downplay it by wearing a smug smile on her lips, but the lingering movement of her eyes completely revealed the surprised reaction from seeing the near-empty state of his apartment.

“I’m moving out,” he says the obvious before she could say anything witty. He walks up to her to put something small in her hand. 

She opens her palm and sees the tiny compact she left for him in their last encounter. 

“Thank you. For all those times that you saved my life,” he says solemnly. 

She forcefully widens the smug smile on her face. “So you made me come all the way here to give this back and act all melancholic? Or are we celebrating your freedom... elsewhere?”

“The former.” 

She takes a few steps past him, turns around, and crosses her arms. “Try not to bore me.” 

_This won’t bore you at all._

He looks at her intently. 

“You and I have been playing this game for far too long,” he says sternly. 

The smug look on her face gradually faded. Her shoulders tensed, and so did the rest of her body. He could see the flash of panic in her eyes. He could tell that this is the kind of confrontation she had run away from all her life. But it has to be done, for his sake at least. She’s got no grappling hook to fly herself away with this time; no escape routes save for one door— and she has to go through him to reach it. 

“Don’t get the wrong idea,” he shakes his head. “I wasn’t— I’m not going to—” He takes a deep breath and composes himself. It’s now or never. 

“This... this whole mess. I’ve been thinking— it’s not about us failing to work something out together. It’s really more about us as separate people.” 

He takes a few steps forward.

“I’ve been called a fool many times because I refuse to be angry with you. But deep down— I was. Because you couldn’t give me what I needed.” 

She narrows her eyes at him. 

“But I realize now,” he continues, “It’s not all your fault. It’s mine for chasing you despite knowing that you couldn’t. I wanted to keep needing you. It kept me from facing myself.”

“What is your point,” she scoffs, trying to sound cold and impatient. 

“I’m saying that I don’t blame you. We both wanted it to stay this way. Because it’s the only way we feel safe.” 

And it’s the truth. He’s just as guilty as her in this game of cat and mouse that they’ve been playing forever; he’s as equally broken as she is, and that’s why they both opted for the exciting but stagnant option. They both dwelled on the flaws of the other so as to avoid acknowledging their own. Deep down they both knew that dealing with the bigger picture involves getting over their issues. It requires pain and sacrifice that they simply were not ready for. Or at least she isn’t yet— because now, he is. 

But he isn’t doing this to force her to make a decision. For the longest time he comforted himself with the idea that her job is to blame. More than a decade later, he understands that it’s never been that simple.

He has had his epiphany, and she will have hers when the time is right. 

A hopeful look takes over his face. “I’m going to need your help one last time.”

She tilts her chin up as if in defiance. Despite her best efforts, her quick, sharp breaths betray her emotions. “For what?” Her voice broke a little.

“I’m ready to let go, Ada. I’m asking that you do the same. 

Just let me go.”

All these years he wanted to be able to crack her shell completely so he could make her stay for good— but he realized that maybe it’s not the solution he’s looking for. 

He didn’t bother to hide the pained and pleading expression on his face in anticipation of her response. He’s prepared for her to leave in anger, or in apathy even— but it would break his heart to see her hurt, for while he didn’t know if what he felt for her was love or limerence, he had always genuinely cared for her.

She stood in silence for what felt like eternity, then shifted her gaze downward to regain her composure. 

“I suppose it’s easier now that there’s no reason for us to be at the same place at the same time,” she avoids his gaze and tries her best to sound nonchalant. 

His heart broke into a million pieces, but he gives her the most genuine smile. In the past he saw her as the embodiment of his unmet desires and thus felt longing and frustration. Now he sees her as something more: a person no different than himself who deserves happiness and healing. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, a sincere gratitude for respecting the boundaries that he had finally opted to set. 

She walks past him towards the door but pauses in uncertainty. She turns back to finally look him in the eyes— as if to test reality and find a hint of regret in them— but found none. 

It was reflected in hers instead.

Her lips parted to speak the same words as she did those many years ago: “Take care of yourself, Leon.”

For a brief moment, she took him back to the collapsing bridge in the lab. Only this time, instead of begging and holding on to her with all that he has— he simply lets go.

_I am not your blowing wind  
_

_I am the lightning_

**~**

He’s been staring at the drink since it was served to him on the counter. It’s strong but comforting, just how he likes it. It’s warm, but it won’t be for long if he keeps staring at it like this. 

“You alright?” Claire Redfield asks with that sweet, friendly smile she always seems to wear, pushing toward him the steaming cup of coffee she made. 

“Just tired,” he tells her a half-lie. He really is tired from driving all day to come to visit, but he’s mostly preoccupied. 

Her home and her presence used to be one of his few sources of comfort, and he’d bask in it, indulge in the validation and affection she offered— until the fear of commitment and rejection starts to creep in and he’d run far away, only to come back around when it’s convenient, like the selfish, cowardly asshole that he is. 

Or was. 

In a fit of desperation, he came back, but only to ask for her forgiveness. And she had forgiven him just like that. Even before then, she had always been that person who didn’t run out of love and positivity, hence why he didn’t feel he deserved her in the first place. He’d only taint her with his anger and bitterness, and yet here they are, still best friends despite the hurt and mistakes. She remained untainted by him— or by anything. 

In a span of a month and a half, he had courageously bid goodbye to the forces that prevented him from loving himself a little better. And it wasn’t easy. It took a lot of strength to be able to let go, but now, after the fallout, he’s finding out that it takes even more to _just live._

He didn’t realize that he has been looking at her for a good minute until she waved a hand at him. “... Hello? Are you there?” She tries not to laugh. 

He rubs a hand on the bridge of his nose and finally takes a sip of his coffee. 

“How’d you do it?” He asks as he stares at nothing. 

“Do what?”

“Move on. Be happy and live like nothing happened.” 

That quickly changed her relaxed demeanor. She shifts on her seat, looking at him intently, and turns her whole body to face his direction.

“I don’t live like nothing happened. I wake up everyday and remember everything.” She rests an arm on the counter. “I use the past to make the present worthwhile.”

He stares back at her, absorbing her words and contemplating seriously, but she destroys the mood with a silly grin. 

“What’re you grinning at, Claire Bear?” He chides.

“You’re so serious,” she replies with a mocking voice, mimicking his expression. 

“You nag me about it all the time.”

“Because you used to smile a lot more.” 

“Did I really?”

“Mm-hmm. You used to cry on my shoulder a lot more, too.” 

Good point. When was the last time he cried? 

Certainly too long ago, if he doesn’t even remember. 

They exchanged a sad smile, like one would make when reminiscing. It took a long time and a lot of wounds for him to get to this point— to realize that it isn’t good alcohol and building walls around himself that he needed in times of vulnerability— but a good cry and a best friend instead. And now he knows he’s in the right place at the right time for it: in front of a beautiful soul who saw and experienced parts of him he deemed unlovable— and accepted them. 

His phone rings. 

The bastards aren’t done ruining precious moments and vacations. 

“Yes...?” He answers in a sing-song voice to hear Ingrid Hunnigan on the other line. Something about the national security advisor— it’s no emergency, she says, but the guy wanted to be connected.

He has an idea why. 

After several meetings with the President and a few other higher-ups, they were able to come to a deal about this resignation of his. Of course he foresaw that they weren’t going to let him walk away. So he managed to strike an agreement with them. He’d lead the DSO as chief advisor and help in the recruitment and training of new prospects. Gotta think of the future somehow, he reasoned.

As for being exempt from the field, the odds are in his favor during this time of recovery, as backed up by his diligent attendance in the detox program and psychiatric visits. He is in the process of working with them on defining what constitutes a special circumstance that would enable them to summon him back to the field after the recovery process. He isn’t the type to just let the world burn after he’s done his part— but he refuses to be sent here and there like they used to, for the sake of all that is left in him. 

Somewhere in there, he managed to get them to agree to a paid vacation. 

This new national security advisor seems eager to prove that he’s a fraction of the asshole that Derek Simmons was by nagging a recovering alcoholic to abandon said stipulations and come back to work as usual.

“Tell him to fuck off in that professional way of yours,” he tells Hunnigan, “I’m in the middle of something important.”

“What could be more important than a call from the national security advisor, Leon?” Hunnigan says incredulously. 

Plenty. 

Time for happiness.

Time for healing. 

Time for himself. 

But right now, it’s something else. 

“I’ve got a trip to plan so I can see my daughter.”

And with that he hangs up. 

He sets the phone down next to his cup of coffee. “Now I’m tired _and_ annoyed,” he says, rubbing his eyes with both hands. “You’re driving us to the airport tomorrow.” 

They’re going to pick Sherry up for their long-due family reunion. 

Claire giggles. “I wasn’t planning on letting you drive anyway.”

That night, he lay alone in the bed of her guest room. Sleep had started to take over his thoughts and drift him away, but he was pulled back by flashes of the past— his nightly visitors. They linger still. 

Let them come, he thinks, for they aren’t going to miraculously vanish. He had walked among them in reality and managed to survive. He has come to realize that he’s got enough strength left in him to handle them, now that they are but ghosts in his head.

Eyelids heavy, he closes his eyes once more for another shot at peaceful slumber— another thing that he so greatly deserves. 

_I am not your autumn moon_  


_I am the night_

**Author's Note:**

> Lines at the end of each segment are lyrics from the chorus of “I Am The Highway” by Audioslave, an incredible song about realizing self-worth. Thanks for reading <3


End file.
